


inside

by akisawana



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Aftercare, Bondage, F/F, kinkmas 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 18:15:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11606202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akisawana/pseuds/akisawana
Summary: Kinkmas 2017. South, Connie, overstimulation and aftercare.





	inside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Heza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heza/gifts).



> Written for the prompt: " I'd like to see some sweet sweet South/Connie action, with some overstimulation? And aftercare cuddles. Please and thank you. ;3;"

Agent Connecticut's room is technically on the Mother of Invention, technically sliding between the stellar clouds, technically a thousand thousand miles from terra firma. But with the door sealed it could be anywhere in the galaxy, on any planet, any colonized asteroid, any shitty moon or tin-can station. For all its occupants can tell, they are just as likely under two miles of arctic ocean as in deep space. There is no window, no sound, nothing penetrating from beyond the steel bulkhead aside from the slightest vibration from the engine, the faintest breeze from the environmental vent. The bed is standard issue, bolted to the floor with standard issue bolts, made up with standard issue sheets and a standard issue blanket. The other furniture, like everything else on a light frigate, is sleek metal built into the walls. And like all good infiltration agents, Agent Connecticut has nothing personal where anyone can see, no hint this room is assigned to her, save the hole in the ceiling where the smoke detector once was. This is only her room when she is in it, and when she is in it, nothing exists outside of the room; there is no war or duty or family, there is nothing but this.

There is nothing but Connie, on the bed, hands and arms and legs wrapped in green silk ribbons, bound to the bed with brown satin cords. Connie, naked, her skin pale and smooth except where it is flushed pink, the record of South’s attentions from her neck to her breasts down her belly and over her hip, long red lines from her ankles up to her knees and streaked up to the tops of her thighs. Connie, eyes screwed shut against the brightness of the overhead light that turns her curves into angles, puts shadows under her eyes and across her throat. Connie, arching the little she can, held down and held wide, trembling under South’s hands, shaking against South’s mouth. Connie, whining high and sweet around the fingers South thrusts between her lips.

There is nothing but South, wearing green lace that makes her skin glow and her hair burn gold, that matches the ribbons that crosses Connie’s wrists and bind them in supplication. South, crouched over Connie’s body, looming and shielding. South wears pink lipstick that shimmers rose gold where she’s sucked on the peaks of Connie’s breasts and the valley between her thighs. South’s nails are clipped short and polished smooth as they disappear up Connie’s pussy, her thumb with the purple shield painted on the nail circling Connie’s clit.

Connie has come around South’s fingers four times already, and the bed is soaked from her pleasure. South’s fingers are tingling and Connie is so tight around her hands, so beautifully responsive. South whispers praise to Connie between the other woman’s gasps, tell her how good she’s doing and how beautiful she is like this, asking her to relax, to open up for South just a little more, just one finger more, until South has all four fingers sunk knuckle-deep and tears are leaking from Connie’s eyes. Just a little bit more, South promises, and you can take it, so good for me and South presses down with her thumb and eases just a little bit deeper into Connie’s body, spreads her fingers around something so deep it’s never been seen

and

Connie

comes

screaming.

South closes her eyes against her own orgasm, coming untouched, from the trust Connie gives her alone, from the sight of her hand sunk so deep, the pressure of Connie’s pleasure as the small woman comes hard enough to force her fingers back together, tight around her palm.

Next time, perhaps, it’ll be her wrist. But now she pulls out, slow and gentle, and watches as Connie’s entrance twitches like it wants her back. Connie is limp, her breath coming in tiny pants, and when South undoes each knot with deft fingers Connie falls against the bed in five parts, feet and legs and arms and hands and head.

There’s a pack of wipes in the top drawer, and soft dry tissues. South cleans Connie’s overstimulated flesh with quick light strokes, helps her into a sweatshirt both of them could fit in comfortably, old and soft and warm and so faded the logo is unrecognizable, if it was ever there.

South leaves to toss the wipes, to coil the cords and wind the ribbons. She comes back in plaid purple flannel, comes back with a bottle of cool water, sweet as anything Connie’s ever tasted. South holds the bottle as Connie drinks in great greedy gulps, and wipes the drips from Connie’s chin with her sleeve.

Connie is patient until South has the bottle recapped and the lights off, the blanket unfolded and the laptop arranged just so, and South herself sitting on the bed. But then she refuses to wait any longer and curls in South’s lap, lays her cheek over South’s heart. South wraps one arm around the smaller woman, logs onto the ottercam and mutes it. Then South’s other arm is around Connie as well, holding her close and safe in the quiet and the dark.

They sit there for a long time, it seems, watching animals half a universe away.

Connie cannot sit still, hiding her face in South’s shoulder, turning to watch the screen. Her legs are curled under her, straight on the bed in front of her, her feet tucked under the sheet and then her legs pulled back up to lay across South’s lap with studied casualness. Her hands are on South’s arm, in her own hair, rubbing where there should be marks from the bonds, flat against South’s thighs.

South doesn’t mind how long it takes. She waits for Connie to fall asleep, Connie’s breath ghosting over her collarbone. There is no sound in their haven, only the laptop fan and the faraway humming of the starship’s engine. Nothing exists in this moment, there is no war or duty or family, there is nothing but the soft warm weight of Connie against her chest, safe and warm and whole.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading


End file.
